


Dark Days

by FollowTheRainbows



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Budapest, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FollowTheRainbows/pseuds/FollowTheRainbows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He made a different call.</p><p>Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff have been working together for years. They have an incredibly complicated friendship, but that has never stopped them from getting the job done.</p><p>November 12, 2012. Clint and Natasha are pulled off of their case and sent to Budapest, but they aren't incredibly sure why. They have been given as little information as possible while facing an incredibly dangerous threat.</p><p>Natasha meets old colleagues, and her unknown past haunts her. Tempers flare and alliances shift. Clint, once the epitome of calmness and professionalism, is now acting strangely.</p><p>What is in store for these two deadly assassins as their relationship as partners and friends changes? How will both of their pasts effect the two of them's future together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Volgograd, Russia, September 22, 2010.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Clintasha fanfic I started on Wattpad (it can still be found there) about Budapest. I tend to be bad about updating, but I'm trying to do better. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Clint Barton looked back down at the file in front of him, sent from S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. There was a picture of a red-headed woman with a strong set to her mouth. Under the picture was the words  **N. Romanoff**.  _What does the 'N' stand for?_ Barton wondered unimportantly. He closed the file with a sharp movement, and tossed it on the plain table in his hotel room.

N. Romanoff. His target. He never enjoyed these missions - he would rather be back at Headquarters, or running interference on the field. However, he was excellent at his job, so, he had a new target.  _And a woman, at that_ , he thought bitterly. He hated killing women. Some people lived for the kill. Lived for the thrill and the dominance of taking someone else's life. Not him. He hated it. He told himself that she was one of the blood-thirsty killers, or else she wouldn't be a target, trying to make himself not feel as bad about his task. He didn't really think it worked.

He sighed, going to lay down on the bed. He'd been in Russia for three days, and he couldn't be more eager to leave. He nearly had Romanoff tracked down to an apartment building. Once he knew, he'd be sure to make quick work of it. For both of their sakes. 

He turned over on his side, hearing the hinges on the bed frame squeak in protest. He sighed again. He didn't dare try to sleep, because he knew exactly what he would see as soon as he closed his eyes. Ever since he recieved the file two days ago from Director Fury, everytime he tried to rest, he was plagued with the image of the red-headed woman, crying, begging, bleeding slowly, dying, at his hand. He had no clue who this woman was, just another face among many that had to be taken down. An enemy. 

He hadn't left himself get too far in her file, just looking for the essentials. He didn't even know her crimes, because he knew if he did, he would pity her, feel remorse when he killed her. He, too, was once like she was. A convicted criminal, to be put to death for his crimes. Until Director Fury saw something in him that he hadn't know existed. Hope.

He remembered it, like it had happened yesterday. It was nearly five years ago. He'd been hiding out in an old abandoned warehouse, somewhere in Oregon, when he was found. He'd used up his rations two days previous, and he didn't think he had the energy to fight. So, when he heard the gun cock from somewhere near the entrance, he had mustered up all of the energy he had, and stood, slowly, pulling his muscles out of the crouched position. He pushed his his shoulders back, and turned to face the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. 

The man was older than Barton had expected, and had an eye patch, but he looked strong and intimidating, especially holding the gun. Clint's bow was draped on his shoulder, a few arrows scattered across the ground by his feet. His weapon wasn't much, but he was deadly with it. He had made it himself, in the woods, just after he had taken off. He knew he was skilled in archery, but, out on his own, he had perfected the skill. It had blossomed. He just wished, faintly, he would get to use his perfect the skill. But that was the cost. The same people who had given him the blessing, would be the same reason he lost it.

He stuck his hand out to the man, almost in a surrendering gesture. The man tightened his grip on the pistol, and shifted on his feet, getting a more stable position. "If I am going to die," Clint said, his voice low and soft, "at least let me die with my weapon in my hand."

At first, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent said nothing, contemplating this request. Finally, after looking Barton up and down, he nodded once, sharply. Clint breathed out through his nose, thankful for this man's mercy. He slowly bent down and picked up on of his arrows. He touched the very tip of it, pressing hard enough where he drew blood. He smiled slightly to himself. He stood up, letting his bow slide off of his arm, and catching it in his hand. He slowly ran his finger down the spine, then plucked the string with his fingers, like a guitar. Then he held up his bow, set the arrow on the string, and positioned his hands, just like he had a thousand times before, except, this would be the last time.

He breathed in deeply, closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the pulse of the bow and string, with the arrow holding it taut. He could almost feel himself practicing back on his father's farm, aiming at a bag of oats, with a target painted on it. He was so innocent then, such a bright young thing. He had such a gleam in his blue eyes then. He tried to bring that light back, in the last few moments of his life. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was prepared to die. His eyes held no fear, only life, like a young child's does. He aimed his arrow slightly above the man-with-the-eyepatch's head, and nodded once, sharply, just like the one had received. He didn't look away, or close his eyes again. Instead, he looked straight at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, showing him he was not afraid.

The man, moved the gun slightly in his had, getting ready. Barton decided to ignore the weapon, and just focus on the man's face. The agent's finger slipped onto the the trigger, which felt as if it was pulsing with energy. Barton's bright eyes bore into the man's one, waiting for the loud ring of the bullet, for the pain, and for the darkness. He held his breath unintentionally, and waited. The air around him seemed alive, flowing just like Clint's blood, although, soon, it wouldn't be. 

 _I'm ready,_  he tells himself.  _Any second now. It won't hurt too much it will be over soon. Just wait_.

And he did. He waited for the bullet. But it never came. He heard an exasperated sigh come from the agent across from him. He was even pretty sure he had muttered "goddammit" under his breath. Barton heard the gun slide back into its holster, and looked the man up and down questioningly. He lowered his bow so that the arrow was pointed at the floor.

"What are you doing?" He asked in a slightly croaky voice. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to be dead. Why wasn't he dead?

A small smile touched the man's face. "Wrong day to die, kid. Just go on and put the bow down and let's talk."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clint woke up several hours later, amazed he had been able to sleep at all. After having gone to sleep, remembering how Fury had saved him, he had dreamt of those first few weeks at Headquarters, with everyone staring at him, thinking how he should be dead. And, a few times, he nearly was. Agents had grouped together, and would attack him when he was defenseless - when he was coming back from the shower, or after a hard training session, all alone with Fury. Two or three times, he barely walked away, only being saved by superiors who still wanted to see exactly what it was Fury was doing. Not exactly what Clint would call "mercy", but he was just thankful they had stepped in.

After that, he figured it wouldn't stop until he proved himself. So, one night, after a late night stroll on the roof top, he was prepared when they came. There had been three of them; two from the side, and one from behind. They would attack him strategically, one coming at hitting him swiftly, then backing off. He had to try and injure them one by one. It was tiring, and tedious, for both sides. Barton soon figured out each one's weakness, and began using that against them. Finally, the leader, a guy with dark hair, falling slightly in his face, attacked Clint straight on, relying on his brute force to knock him off balance. However, at the last minute, Clint had dodged, and grabbed him by the shirt and swung him around to face him. Barton used every part of his body to try and injure the man.

The two other attackers backed off, letting the two men face off. It was a fair match. Clint's stealth and agility to match this man's strength and force. The two exchanged several blows, before Clint finally was able to manipulate his slowness, and get him in a compromising position. After that, he started hitting him. He started hitting him, and he kept hitting him until he could hardly feel his hands anymore. He heard the other two men retreat, and he finally stopped, breathing heavy, with sweat dripping down his face. He looked down at the man, barely conscious, and covered in blood. 

Clint stood up, slowly, with effort. Then, he carried the man all the way, all alone, to the infirmary. There, Fury had found him, and asked him what had happened. He'd recieved much more respect after that, and things soon became normal.

Clint smiled, recalling the memory. Him and his attacker had never been good friends after that, but they were acquanted. Then, Clint remembered somberly, last month, he had attended that guy's funeral. He had been killed on an assignment. After hearing that, Clint almost wished he had got to know him better. He was a day late and a dollar short. 

Clint glanced at the clock next to the bed.  **7:37 am**. He had slept about six hours, because he had gotten up to go over the file again just after midnight, and he would guess he went to bed a little after one. He stood, stretching, and popping his neck loudly. He saundered into the kitchen, wearing a black t-shirt and black cargo pants. He grabbed a water and drained it quickly. Next, he went into the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror. He ran a hand over his jaw, not liking the prickle he felt since he hadn't shaved in a few days. He looked longingly at the bow he had cased up by the foot of the bed, but knew he needed to clean up.  N. Romanoff would have to wait.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Black Widow sat at her dining room table, an arsenal of weapons spread out in front of her. Her shoulders ached, and her clothes were scratching at her skin, but she neede to wipe down all of the weapons, making sure there was no chance anyone could trace this back to her. The sun outside was at its peak, and she was just coming in from a job. She knew they would find and clean up the mess, but she would still feel better when she was hundreds of miles away. There was something disconcerting about being back in this town, although she couldn't figure out why. She couldn't remember anytime she had been here before, or, even if she had, she didn't have any bad memories of this place. 

She shook the feeling off, and began the long process of covering her tracks. Some part of her wished this wasn't her life, that instead, maybe she was normal, and married to a banker, with one kid and another on the way, but she knew that would never be the case.  _This_ was her life, and she had accepted it. She pushed away all thoughts, and started taking away the first gun.

It was methodical work; doing the same thing to each and every gun. She only hated the reason she had to do it. She had completed the task given to her, and that was that. She just hated the cost.  _"Life is life and death is death, until the day they meet, and then all that is left if sorrow, and, if you're brave, guilt,_ " she had been told once. Guilt? Was this guilt she was feeling? She couldn't be sure. 

Hours later, she was finally finished, and even more exhausted and hungry than before. She stood up, stiff, and walked slowly over to the fridge. She bent down, looking inside, only to be more disappointed. Inside, there was only a stale carrot, a packet of mustard, and whip cream, with a 2008 date on it. She groaned, closing the door, reached for her apartment keys and wallet. She slipped out of the door, locking it quickly, and started down the road, headed for a nearby cafe.

She passed by people, all who glanced at her quickly, just as she did them. Her red hair tended to attract looks of people admiring it, or wondering if it was dyed. She liked to think she was an attractive woman, and plenty of men took an insterest in her, but she never had the time for them. Besides, she wasn't exactly in the best proffesion to be dating. 

Her feet made quiet slapping sounds against the pavement as she walked, shoulders slunched forward. She really was exhausted, but she just needed to make it to the cafe. She counted the streets as they went by. If she hadn't been so exhausted, maybe she would have noticed that someone had been following her.

She turned the corner, and walked right into some one. She heard him grunt, simataneously trying not to fall on her, and tring not to drop his food at the same time. "Смотреть это!" the Black Widow said angrily at the man.  _People. People will be the end of me_ , she thought hautily. 

The guy backed away a few steps, staring intently at his food, as if willing it not to fall. Then, he looked at her and said, almost as if he was amused, "Sorry. But, for the record, you did nearly run into  _me_. Are you so sure  _I'm_ the one who should "watch it"? _  
_

"Ah, so you  _do_ speak Russian. How refreshing to know you're not another one of those idiot tourists. Translate this: Ты член!" She smiled confidently, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

The guy laughed again, and for the first time, the Black Widow looked completely at him. He had a strong build, and she could see his muscles through the t-shirt he was wearing, with a leather jacket over it. He had relatively short hair, dark brown in color, and piercing blue eyes. She was almost shocked by how attractive he was. "That's not a very nice thing to say to some one you just met. I thought  _I_ was the American here." He talked to her as if they were old friends who were catching up after a few years apart. Once again, she thought of the normal life she yearned for. She could see herself married to this attractive stranger with the smooth laugh and sense-of-humor. 

She didn't say anything, just looked at him, her arms still crossed, and she was sure her face was plastered with playful annoyance. Neither of them said anything, until the guy motioned behind her. "Mind if I get by you?"

"Oh, uh, right. My bad, Aмериканский," she said, using the Russian form of 'American'.

He smiled down at her, and stepped around her, and walked swiftly around the corner.  _Well, there he goes_ , she thought to herself. She looked back at him in time to see him dart around the corner quickly. She sighed to herself, and didn't move, just continued to stare at the blank space where he disappeared. She breathed in deep, trying to gain her self-control.

 _One_ , she counted to herself.  _Two. Three. Four. Fi - Oh, screw it_. With that, she took off, rounding the corner, looking around for the guy's brown hair. Blonde hair. Black hair. So many people whipped by, she felt hopeless - and pathetic - looking for him. Then, she glimpsed his leather jacket, whipping around another corner, and she darted after him. Some people looked at her as if she was insane, but others just ignored her. 

Her feet made next to no sound as she jogged quickly after him. When she reached the corner where he turned, she stopped and looked down it. It was a long alley, and she could faintly see the ending, with no sign of the American. Slowly, she started down it. She looked and down the brick walls, and at the trash littered at the bottom. She had the inkling to call out, but she knew how naive that was. Instead, she stayed quiet and walked further down the alley.

 Eventually, the Black Widow gave up, and, sighing, turned around to leave.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ she chastised herself, not paying attention. As soon as she turned around, a small gasp escaped her lips, because she was face to face with an arrow, aimed straight at her eye. Behind the bow, was the American. 

"дерьмо," the Black Widow muttered under her breath. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The HYDRA agent walked silently up the sidewalk, his hood up, covering his features. He had seen her slip around the corner, into the long alley. She seemed to be following some man, but that wouldn't be an issue. He could die too. Anything to get the job done. 

He stopped right before the entrance, leaning against the wall casually, and pulled the gun from his waistband. He loaded it with one of the bright blue bullets from the pack attached to his belt. Once he pulled the tripper, a sharp, needle-like tip would come from the bullet, and, - if it hit its mark, and he knew it would - it would render his target useless. Then, he would deposit her back at HYDRA headquarters, and they could deal with her. She was a tedious task, and he was ready to be done with her. The sedative would last for several days, and by the time she woke up, he would be halfway across the globe, onto a new mission. 

With the gun loaded, he slipped into the alley after her, only to discover he was not the only one trailing her. He knew he could shoot this man now, but it would give him away to her. And, after trailing her from over a day, he was open for some entertainment. 

The other man, one with a leather jacket and brown hair, was carrying a bow, the quiver pulled tight, and aimed straight at Romanoff's head. This concerned the HYDRA agent, but he would interfere before anything fatal happened. Romanoff continued down the alley, and he could see her surveying the area, but she seemed oblivious to the man behind her. Finally, he heard her sigh, and start to turn around.  _Here we go_ , he thought to himself.

The Black Widow's face was a perfect mask of suprise when she saw the weapon. Even more so when she saw the man behind it. He heard her mutter, in Russian, "Shit." The HYDRA agent smiled to himself. In a few moments, he would step in, tranquilizing her, and probably killing him. The world would be a better place with one less S.H.I.E.L.D. agent roaming around, causing problems. 

He could see her scrambling for a solution, though it seemed unlikely she would find one. He hadn't crossed paths with very many archers before, but the few he had, well, he knew their aim was deadly. One flick of the finger, and she as dead.  _Oh, no he doesn't_ , thought the HYDRA agent angrily. He was not going to let S.H.I.E.L.D. take the lead, and take his target. He lifted his gun, and stepped into the alley, going far enough in, no one would see him.

Gun aimed on the Black Widow, he said, with a heavy Russian accent, "Put down the bow, ageent."

He could see the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's shoulders tense, but he didn't move.

"Vine," he said, his voice menacing. "Ve can do thees the hard vay."

He aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barton heard the gun go off, and he flinched, preparing for the immense, sharp pain. He'd been shot before, once as a training excersize, with a bullet stimulant, and again with a  _real_ gun, on a case. He knew exactly how it would feel; at first a sharp, almost blind pain, in the exact place the bullet would hit. Then, a few moments after, it would start to spread, like glass shatters when it breaks. It burns, like a fire, spreading and bringing pain, but he knew he could work through it. It would just be much harder. 

He could hear the air practically moving, due his incredible hearing abilities, and locked up his knees, and prepared for the shot. But it never came. Instead, he heard it hit something to his slight right. The Black Widow. He heard the breath leave her lungs, and he saw her look down to where she had been shot in the chest, seeing a strange tube sticking out, most of the blue serum in it nearly gone, and still draining. Then, she slowly swayed, and then hit the ground. 

In a flash, Clint turned, bending his knees slightly, and leaning back some on his right leg. He pulled the quiver to the max, and let go. The arrow flew flawlessly through the air, straight at the Russian's chest. His face had barely morphed into a mask of suprise when the arrow hit him. This was easy for Clint, the flawless kill, one of practice. He knew nothing about his man, give for his nationality. He hadn't planned how he would find him, and how he would execute a skilled kill. He was simply a consequence of the job. Another body, which did bother Clint, but he knew it was unavoidable. It was practically inevitable. 

The man, a HYDRA agent, Barton could see now, hit the ground, but his heart had already stopped beating.  Barton turned quickly to check on his real target. He kneeled down beside her head, her red hair splayed out around her like a fan. There was a little blood in her mouth, and the tube, still stuck in her chest, was empty. He reached down and pulled it out. Her eyes were still slightly open, but they were glazed open. He placed two fingers on her throat, and felt her pulse, strong and consistent. He doubted there was poison in the tube, just a sedative. He didn't know if that made it easier for him to kill her or not.  _Is it right to kill her while she's defenseless? Does that make me any better than her kind?_ He didn't know. _  
_

Grudginly, however, he got up, and walked over to the man. He bent down, and brushed his hand over the man's cold, lifeless eyes, closing them. He deserved that much. Then he pulled the gun from his grasp, and a clip of bullets from his belt, and loaded it into the gun. He walked back to Romanoff, and stood over her, the gun aimed at her head. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Her green eyes bored  into his, as if saying  _do it_. The longer he stared, the harder it was to point the gun at her. Sighing, he bent down, to close her eyes, just like he had the other guy. Just as his hand touched her, he heard her whisper, "Make it quick."

Her voice was groggy, and rough. But her words, her words are what got to him.  _Make it quick_. He can remember thinking the same thing, as he stood in front of Director Fury for the first time, his hand made bow in his hand. Now, standing in an alley in Russia, he was being asked to do the same thing. And, that was what made him not be able to do it.  _Make it quick_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Several days later, the Black Widow awoke in a room, laying on a large padded block in a room of gray. Her head was pounding, and every nerve in her body was aching. She groaned, sitting up, and tried stretching. Slowly, she made herself stand, and she walked to the door. Gently, she twisted the handle and gave it a small tug. It didn't budge. She sighed and looked around the room again. On a small table by her bed was a change of clothes, and a bottle of water. On the other end of the room, there was another door, open, and leading into what appeared to be a bathroom. She walked slowly over and grabbed then went into the bathroom to change. 

As she peeled off her days-old clothes, she checked her body for bruises and cuts. Her muscles were sore, and every movement was slow and as small as possible. Once she finally had the new, plain gray sweats on, she walked back into her room. Inside, there was someone sitting on top of her bed. She gave a small yelp, and backed into the wall. 

The man sitting on her bed, turned to face her. Her breath caught in her throat. It was the same guy from before. Her heart started racing.  _Wasn't he supposed to kill me?_ she thought, panicked.  _Guess he came to finish the job_ , another voice answered. 

"Easy," the brown-haired guy said, trying to calm her. He stood up, and moved towards her slightly. When she flinched away more, he stopped, and put his hands up in a surrender-like gesture. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, but she didn't quite belive him.

"Who are you?" she croaked, her voice breaking and raspy. 

A small smile was on the man's lips. "I might ask you the same thing, N. Romanoff. Tell me, what  _does_ the 'N' stand for?" He said it casually, but then she remembered he did that, and then he would try to kill you.

"None of your business," she replied quickly.

"'None-of-your-business Romanoff'. Little long, don't you think?" He smiled charmingly. She just glared at him.

He sighed and said, "I'm not here to kill you, if that's what you think. In fact, if you remember, I spared you."

"What a saint," she said haughtly.

"Look, I know a few things about you. Would you like to know what those things are?" _Not really_ , she thought coldly. He told her anyway. "I know your name is Romanoff. I know you're wanted by both S.H.I.E.L.D. and by HYDRA. And I know you wanted to die quickly. Oh, and, of course, you have a liking for Chinese quisine." He was refering to the first time they met, when they had nearly crashed when she was going to get food. She said nothing. 

"Like it or not, you're not dead, and that's thanks to me. I'm not going to kill you, and neither is anyone else here."

"Here?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters."

She simply stared at him. He had brought her to the headquarters? And he thought she wouldn't get killed? Unbelievable!

"I was like you once, believe it or not. I was a wanted criminal, and some one was sent to kill me. But, that person made a different choice. So when I saw you in that alley, and the way you just wanted to die quickly, I knew it was my time. My time to save some one. And guess what? _I. Saved. You._ So maybe, just  _maybe_ , be a little grateful. Because, you could be dead. But you're not. And, believe me, that is plenty to be thankful for." With that, he stood up sharply and headed towards the door. He yanked it open, and headed off down a hall, the door closing slowly. The Black Widow stood there for a second, before heading for the door.

She didn't want to escape, she knew she was probably safer here than out on her own, but she knew he was right. She stepped out in to the hall and saw him still walking. "Natasha," she called to him. He stopped, and turned around to face her. She felt her face redened. "The N stands for Natasha."

She saw his smile through the distance between them. "Natasha," he said, just loud enough for her to hear. "Come on, and I'll show you around." With that, he turned around and started walking away.

Natasha darted after him.


	2. Paris, France, November 12, 2012.

Natasha sat at the kitchen table of the small one-bedroom apartment, tapping quickly on the keyboard of her computer. She felt quite uncomfortable in the dress she was wearing, picking at it and constantly pulling it down, yearning for this trip to be over so she could go back to wearing pants and boots instead of dresses and heels. But she would have to wait. Because they never left a job unfinished. 

She heard the front door open, feet shuffling inside. She quickly shut her laptop and tucked it into the corner with the others, and then she stood up, smoothing her dress with her hands. She called, in the sweetest voice she could muster, "Clint? Honey, is that you?"

Clint's head popped from around the corner of the door frame, which lead to the living room, where he was, his body still concealed. "Yes, dear, I just got home. We, er, have some company," he said, giving her a knowing look she understood immediately.

Natasha was able to read Clint better than anyone, and he, her. They had been partners for nearly two years, and they were a flawless, well-working machine. Natasha had very little experience working with a partner, used to handling everything herself, as was Clint, but she was fond of it. Fond of  _him_.

Things could seem incredibly awkward between them, always working cases together, staying in the same apartment together. But they very rarely were. Clint took everything well and in stride, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. He always slept on the couch, giving her the bed, no matter how much she complained. They lived together well, both being low-maintenance, and with him being kind and compliant.

He gave her space when she needed it, always willing to cook breakfast, or go and get food to eat. He never questioned her past, nor did she question his, so they were both able to move forward and be new people. He would listen for hours when Natasha was upset, as she would get occasionally, whenever a case got difficult. He offered amazing advice, but he was also able to sit quiet for hours with her, when nothing needed to be said.

She also was constantly awed at his abilities as an agent. He was stealthy and thorough, and more deadly with his bow than she thought was humanly possible. He always had her back. He was always willing to save just one more person, and she wished she were as selfless as he was.

However, things could sometimes be awkward and uncomfortable between them. Especially in cases like this. When they had to be a couple.

They were incredibly believable as a couple, but since they, of course, were'nt actually a couple, it could be hard. She remembered on one of their first cases together, their covers were a newlywed couple, on their honeymoon in Cancun. They were walking around a park, scoping out their target, when they had a close encounter.

Their target was a spy, sent from a high-class criminal to attempt to gain S.H.I.E.L.D. information from one of the foreign offices. They were tasked with finding and incriminating him, and giving him to the nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. agency. Little did they know, the park was actually a meet-up with his employer.

As soon as Clint realized, she could hear him cussing under his breath. She knew he was nervous, running quickly through the options of what they could do to get out. Natasha did the first thing that came to her mind.

She grabbed his arms and turned him around, placing his hands on her hips, pulling him closer to her. "Kiss me," she said quickly, in a hushed tone.

"Wha-" he said, looking at her confused, holding himself away from her.

"Kiss me," she said again quickly. "Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable and will make us look casual. Now do it!"

He stared at her for another moment, before leaning down slowly. His lips touched hers gently, tentatively. Natasha reached up, placing her hand on his neck, trying to make it look natural. She pulled him slightly closer to her, moving her mouth with his.

He kissed her back, not quite forcefully but certainly with passion - or so Natasha was hoping. She tried not to read too much into it, especially since she didn't know him very well. She didn't even know _why_ she would care his motives. She'd kissed men before. For cases. Not for cases. But she couldn't help but wonder.

As soon as their target had moved on, rather quickly after seeing the intertwined couple, just as Natasha had predicted, they separated and left, so as to not be put in another compromising position.

She remembered that he didn't talk to her for several days after that. When ever she would greet him or ask him a question he would just grunt and nod his head slightly. Most days he would just slip out onto the patio and she wouldn't see him for hours. It was like had disappeared.

One night, she wandered out there, finally gaining the nerve to talk to him. When she stepped out into the brisk air, he was no where in sight. She was sure he had to be out there because he had gone out there mid day and she had waited patiently for him to come in, but he hadn't.

She looked around, wondering where he could be, then she figured it out when she saw the shadow of a body on the roof. _I guess they don't call him The Hawk for nothing._

She looked around, then stepped on the rail, giving herself a boost so she could grab the edge of the roof. Once she had a firm grip, she pulled herself up easily. When she was up, she turned and sat down next to him. She looked out over the city, amazed by how beautiful it was.

"Wow," she muttered under her breath.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He asked from next to her. She just nodded, not wanting to say anything that would make him be quiet again. She could feel his body heat from where she was sitting, and hear his breaths as they travelled in and out, in and out, 

He sighed from beside her. "I'm sorry, for the record."

"For what," she asked, eyes glued on the scenery in front of her. 

"You know for what."

She sighed inaudibly, turning to face him. "There's nothing to be sorry for. It was circumstance of the job. Nothing more."

He nodded. "Precisely."

Natasha didn't know why, but she felt a twang in her stomach when he said that.

Now, nearly two years later, things were as smooth and comfortable as ever. They were the closest thing either of them had to a best friend. They counted on each other. With out one, there wasn't the other.

She looked at him now, with his button-up shirt loosely tucked into his khaki pants, with his short brown hair spiked up in the front, looking back at her in only the way he could. She nodded. "Well, bring them on in," she said, responding to his comment.

He stepped out of the doorway so she could no longer see him, and in stepped a couple. Their assignment. They were supposed to watch over and protect the newly married Prince of Romania and his civilian wife, Maria. They knew several countries would not hesitate to kill the prince and his new bride to send a message.

The short blonde woman, Maria, pranced in gracefully, smiling widely. She glanced around the room quickly before smiling even wider. When she saw Natasha, she floated over and wrapped her arms around her. "Oh, Tasha," she sing-songed. Natasha cringed at the nickname she had given her. "I just _love_ the place! How come you haven't let us come over before?" Maria held Natasha's body away from her, and Natasha simply shrugged.

Next, Maria went over to Clint, and grabbed his face and, pulling him down to her level since he was so much taller than she, kissed him once on each of cheeks. Natasha tried not to stare when her plump red lips made contact with Clint's cheeks.

Instead she looked at the prince. He nodded to her once, and she nodded back. He knew their real job with them there in France, but his wife did not. He thought it was in her best interest to not know, so she thought Clint and 'Tasha' were long time friends of her husband's.

After Maria was finished greeting Clint, her husband went over and shook his hand strongly.

"Nicholas," Clint said in greeting.

"Clinton," replied the prince.

Clint smiled widely. "I hope you know you're the only one who gets away with that," he replied, nudging Nicholas' arm.

This time, Nicholas chuckled. "Well, all except for you pretty little sweetheart over there." He patted Clint on the back. Clint replied something that sounded faintly like  _Yeah, she's something like that,_  but Natasha didn't hear him.

Instead, Maria had navigated back to Natasha and was talking to her intently about some room decor she wanted to help with. Natasha smiled and nodded when it was appropriate. Clint watched from where he was, across the room with Nicholas.

Nicholas laughed, clasping Clint on the back. Clint looked at him blankly. "What?"

Nicholas shook his head, still chuckling. "Nothing, nothing. It's just.... well, you look at her the way I looked at my wife when we first met."

" _What?_ No, I don't."

Nicholas laughed quietly and said, "Yes, you do." Then he walked off, towards the women, leaving Clint staring after them, his mouth slack open. _  
_

\-----------------------------------------------

Clint knocked softly on the bedroom door. He hoped she wasn't asleep yet. 

"Come in," Natasha's voice called from inside. Clint took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping in slightly.

"Natasha?" he called. She stepped out of the bathroom, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank, a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. 

"Yeah," she said, her words distorted by the brush in her mouth. Clint chuckled, shaking his head at her. She rolled her eyes and stepped into the bathroom. While she was gone, Clint took the opportunity to sit down. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers along the soft comforter. He had missed having a bed, more than he liked to admit, but he wasn't going to make Natasha suffer on the couch. He backed further onto the bed, to the point where he was leaning against the headboard, his feet inches away from the end of the bed. He closed his eyes, enjoying the bed while he could.

"Comfortable?" Natasha's voice asked.

"Incredibly," Clint replied, smiling, and he opened his eyes.

Natasha was standing next to the bed, a smirk on her lips. She sat on the edge of the bed, near Clint. "So what did you need to talk about?"

"How do you know I need to talk to you? Maybe I just wanted to borrow your bed," Clint replied. Natasha just looked at him, seeing through his facade. Clint cursed her ability to read him so well.

He sighed. "Do you ever think about us; you and me." Clint kept his eyes on the painting on the wall, not daring to look her, even though he could feel her eyes on him. "Like, how we always work together. We've been doing this together, for what? Two years now? If you didn't want to work with me anymore, I'd understand. I'm sure I could convince Fury to let you have any post you wanted. I wouldn't mind."

"Is that what you want?"

"This isn't about what I want, Natasha. I'm asking what  _you_ want."

Natahsa sighed next to him. "What's making you ask this, Barton?" He knew she was serious since she was calling him by his last name.

"Just something Nicholas said to me this afternoon. It made me wonder if you were happy with me." He paused. "With us working together that is."

For a moment, both of them were silent. Then Natasha spoke up, "Clint, if I wasn't happy with working with you, I would say something. I have enough respect for you to do that. And, honestly, I don't know if I  _could_ work with anyone else." She paused, then added melodramatically, " _You're my one and only!_ "

Clint bursted out laughing. He couldn't deny he was relieved, because he felt the same way she did. They'd worked together so long, he didn't think he could work with someone different. 

They both sat in silence. Natasha's mind was racing, wondering about her and Clint's relationship. Clint had been the one to save her, to turn her good. She owed him everything. She would die for him. And she suspected he would do the same for her.

"Hey Clint?" Natasha asked. No answer. "Clint?" She turned to him to see his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, his breath coming out in quiet puffs. She couldn't help but smile.

She stood up as gently as she could, and he shifted, turning in his side, his head resting on his arm and pillow. She considered waking him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. 

She would let him rest. God knew he needed it.

\-------------------------------------

Clint groaned and rolled over on his side, not wanting to wake up yet. His arms were splayed out across his resting place and -  _wait, that can't be right_ , he thought. He moved his arms around in a large arc, feeling soft cushions and blackets under them.

He sat up urgently and looked around. There was a large blanket on top of him, and he was laying on one half - well, more like the middle - of the bed.  _Natasha's bed_. The other half of the bed's blankets were torn back and crumpled, like they'd been slept on. 

Slowly, he remembered falling asleep here while talking to her. He guessed she let him rest, taking the other half of the bed. He felt bad about it, but it was too late. 

He got out of bed and stretched, hearing his back and neck pop, his muscles pulling taut over his bones. He walked out of the bedroom, and saw Natasha in the kitchen, her back to him. He walked in slowly and stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. 

"Hey," he said to her in greeting.

She turned and looked at him, giving a small semi-wave, with a spatula in her hand. "I hope you know you snore.  _A lot_."

Clint couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah. sorry about that." He paused for a moment. "Why didn't you wake me?"

She turned around, leaning against the stove. She shrugged and said nonchalantly, "You were tired. I figured you'd like to sleep on a bed for once."

"Yeah, well, I appreciate it."

Natasha simply shrugged again and turned back to her cooking.

Clint heard three quiet knocks on their front door. Natasha turned to look at him, and they shared a knowing glance. He grabbed his bow from the nearby closet and place an arrow on the string, pulling it back. Natasha had a gun tightly in her grip and followed him to the door. 

He stood directly by where the door would open, prepared to shoot anyone down, Natasha stood just behind it, gun ready, hand resting lightly on the handle. They both nodded to each other, and Natasha began to count.

Clint watched as she mouthed the numbers.  _One. Two. Three._ Natasha turned the handle quickly, the door springing open. Clint pulled his arrow even further back, prepared to let it fly. But he didn't have to, because there wasn't anyone there. 

Clint looked out in the hall, scanning it quickly both ways, but no one was there. But, just as he was going to step back inside, he saw a folder laying on the ground. He bent down, picked it up, and carried it inside with him.

Natasha peaked at it over his shoulder. "What is it?"

Clint shrugged. "No idea." He sat it on the kitchen table, his bow leaning against it. "Shall we find out."

He looked at Natasha and she nodded. He ran his finger under the seal, the flap popping up. He slowly slipped his hand inside, and felt a few papers. He grabbed them and pulled them out. There was a packet inside of a folder, and an envelope.

Natasha grabbed the folder and opened it, flicking through it. "It's a case file."

Clint slowly opened the envelope, letting the contents fall out. "They're plane tickets."

"Where to?" Natasha asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Budapest."


End file.
